


Clouds of purple smoke

by unhappy_matt



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Aged-Up Morty Smith, Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Humor, Character Study, Fear of Abandonment, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, Implied Past Attempted Sexual Assault, Incest, Introspection, Jealousy, Lack of Communication, M/M, Morty has sexual trauma, Morty's mindblowers, Piercings, Possessiveness, Self-Loathing, Tattoos, Tone Whiplash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, multiple POVs, the author goes meta a little bit because it's fun, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappy_matt/pseuds/unhappy_matt
Summary: Rick and Morty come back from Morty's first official night out drinking.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First dip into writing for this fandom, now that I've watched all 4 seasons! I'm so excited and nervous. Writing these characters has been a very fascinating challenge. 
> 
> Have fun, heed the warnings, let me know what you think! ^^

They’re unsteady on their feet when they emerge from the portal.

For a moment, the circle of glowing green light flashes around them; then it’s silence as they stumble through the living room wall into an empty house. Beth and Jerry are away for the weekend, off to a spa resort.

Rick pockets the portal gun. They’re shoulder to shoulder; Rick’s arm is loose around Morty’s back.

Morty’s rambling is a discontinuous hum, floating in and out of his ears. Something about the bartender who created a personalized cocktail for him and named it the Royal Morty, because Morty kept insisting that he was a prince where he came from.

Rick would point out that he knows, he was _there_ just half an hour ago, but he’s kind of busy keeping himself upright against the worn-out couch.

“And, and check it out! Look at my piercing! Pretty cool, huh?”

Morty tips his head back in the crude, artificial light, raising the half-finished bottle of purple alien beer he’s still clutching from the bar. A thin metal ring shines on the upper rim of his ear, with a tiny light blue crystal dangling from it.

Rick did warn him that getting his ear pierced by an octopus-looking alien in the corner of a smoky bar wasn’t the brightest idea, but whatever. The piercings Rick has on his own body didn’t come from much more reputable sources.

He supposes he’s gonna have to take care of whatever string of alien fever Morty winds up catching.

“I-I told you, you’re gonna catch, like, a hundred alien diseases,” Rick huffs anyway. He walks carefully around one of the armrests, trying to maneuver both of them closer to the couch. Sitting down sounds awesome, right about now.

Morty protests with a squeaky sound of indignation. 

“Don’t be a-a killjoy, Rick, it’s-it’s fashion!”

Rick rolls his eyes.

“R-real men know green’s the color, Morty.”

He crashes down on the familiar cushions, feeling it deep in every bone. Morty follows right after, bumping into the armrest and flopping down like an empty bag.

Rick sighs, scooting over to make up for Morty’s lack of personal space.

“It looks good,” he concedes.

Morty’s smile in response is so bright and so stupidly earnest it hurts.

“I-I knew you thought so!”

Morty leans back, smelling like booze and smoke and sweat. Sharp and tangy, similar to their Earth equivalents, just slightly different enough that Rick’s sense of smell can pick up their extraterrestrial origin.

Morty laughs, all on his own, a tiny bubbly sound that ripples through him for no reason. Morty’s laughter is breezy, airy and light like a fog, like mist in the morning. He swings the bottle with a large, clumsy gesture, dangerously close to knocking himself right on the forehead with one swift blow, and chugs what’s left of it.

His grandson is— _drunk_. Not the head-in-the-toilet or what-happened-to-my-internal-organs kinda drunk—that would have been a sight—but still.

Morty doesn’t drink.

Well, that’s not entirely correct. He’s consumed alcohol before, on occasion; but he never gets drunk.

He doesn’t have a taste for the stuff or the feeling, not like Beth; nor does he appreciate the importance of getting wrecked, like Summer does. Well, his loss, Rick would usually shrug.

But Morty came out to drink with him, tonight, and Rick is privately glad that Morty was there with him, of his own volition, not dragged through pointless complaining and protesting. That his grandson sat by his side to have a few rounds with him, in the corner of a seedy bar somewhere in a tiny shithole of a planet whose name Rick didn’t bother to memorize.

Morty’s first time drinking.

Not truly the very first time, technically. But it’s the first _official_ night out drinking. A rite of passage, like Blips and Chitz.

There was that one time, when Morty was sixteen—ended with Morty taking his shirt off on a stage, walking straight into several thousand Flurbos worth of musical equipment, peeing himself, and passing out. Rick made him forget.

That was funny. But Rick always figured… Morty deserved to have a drinking night that he could remember.

Morty’s not twenty-one. He’s eighteen, almost done with high school, almost ready to move out of the house, like Summer already did before him. Not that the rest of the galaxy cares whether he’s of legal drinking age according to the laws of the US of A, planet Earth.

Morty sets the empty glass bottle down on the floor with surprising gentleness, and chuckles. He’s slumped against the sofa’s headrest, radiating heat against Rick’s body. Rick would nudge him, or push him right off, but he stops himself. He knows why. It’s the stupid _softness_ of Morty’s face, of his wobbly smile. 

Uh. The usual tension in Morty’s face and body has relaxed, melted away in a state of intoxicated torpor. His guard unusually lowered.

Rick knows better than to think Morty helpless, four years into hopping around the multiverse with him, but he looks so…

_Don’t_.

The echo of his own voice inside his mind, surprisingly sharp, a sudden cold shower. 

And Rick won’t, alright, he shakes his head and tries to shake off the beginning of that train of thought. Okay, he won’t linger on it, he’ll stop there.

He’s hit by another thought, one that tastes like bile and twists his stomach. There’s a reason, he thinks, why Morty tends to steer clear of alcohol. Especially in crowded places full of strangers.

One that has something to do with the restroom of a lurid inn, and Morty who had come out shaking and disheveled and with tears in his eyes.

King Jellybean had paid for that; Rick had made sure the bastard learned the price of touching Morty.

And if over the past four years Rick has liquidated an alien or three for staring at Morty for a little too long, or for slipping a quickly dissolving pill into Morty’s alcohol-free Green Bubbles… well, he’s sure Morty would be grateful, if he knew.

After that one adventure gone wrong, Morty has still followed Rick to places like bars and clubs, from time to time. Rick has seen him pick up the habit of sitting where he could look at all the entrances and exits. He’s always decided to be graceful enough not to comment. Morty is hilariously convinced of being subtle, but Rick pays attention.

Rick reaches for his own flask. He’s got more booze, for later, waiting for him in the garage.

He downs a large gulp.

Morty doesn’t drink _around him_.

That is another thought that he’s going to push back right where it belongs, in a dark recess of his mind where it won’t touch him and he won’t have to even remotely look at it.

_Morty doesn’t trust you. Smart. Can you blame him?_

Fuck, he’s not drunk enough, as long as he can still hear his own voice laughing at him.

Morty sighs and his legs slide a little further down toward the edge of the cushion. Rick glares, caught up in trying to elaborate a snarky remark that doesn’t come out.

“… ‘m drunk,” Morty giggles.

Ever helpful and observant, his grandson. Rick’s arm is trapped behind Morty’s back.

An ache like a hook tugs at Rick’s chest. All too familiar, in Morty’s presence.

He grimaces.

“Y-yeah, no sh-shit, M-Morty.”

Tonight Morty held his own, Rick’s gonna give him that. He _is_ Beth’s son, after all, _his_ grandson, and families lie all the time but genetic baggage doesn’t, right?

But Morty doesn’t have Rick’s tolerance, and right now, after staggering through the living room like a baby deer, he’s leaning more heavily into Rick’s side. His eyes are closed. Rick resists the impulse to rest his palm on top of Morty’s hair and run his fingers through soft, sweaty hair.

Sighing, Rick shakes him.

“Come—come on, Morty, up. Let’s t-take you to bed.”

Morty whines, low and dragged on too long, shaking his head. He clings to Rick’s arm when Rick tries lifting and pushing him up. Morty’s hand claws at Rick’s shoulder but misses.

Rick hisses and curses, and manages to slide his arm around Morty’s back.

Morty’s grown taller fast, all at once, gracelessly, like many teenagers do. He’s all legs, gangly and still round-faced, with broader shoulders and more strength than Rick remembered. He’s not as tall as Rick yet, but he’s almost there, to Rick’s perpetual annoyance.

Morty hiccups and mumbles into Rick’s coat, and if for a moment Rick shivers at the stinging, sickeningly sugary heat of Morty’s breath in his ear, that’s between him and the merciless void of outer space.

Morty makes no effort to make himself useful. He lets Rick direct him, rambling an incoherent string of disconnected and enthusiastic memories from earlier at the bar.

“And-and I was cool, wasn’t I, Rick?”

“S-sure you were, buddy.”

He could’ve just left Morty there on the couch, or even on the floor. Rick’s vision is blurring at the edges, and it’s not like he’s in the best condition to babysit. Yet there he is. Tomorrow, as he nurses the hangover he can already anticipate, he’ll find an explanation that will make him feel smart about the extra effort. It would be inconvenient to just let Morty die an undignified death like that for no reason, and it would be a bit of a dick move, right after the kid finally had a good night. Something like that.

So, for now, he’s gonna do the right thing. The—responsible? caring? thing.

The stairs are out of the question. He portals the two of them directly into Morty’s bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

He flops down, back first, on a soft surface. His body seems to bounce for ages, like one of those colorful stretchy springs.

Morty blinks. The light around him is harsh, too violently white. Swirling shapes spin around him as the walls and the door of his bedroom come into focus. The nightstand. Morty’s feet sway in the air. He must be sprawled out sideways on his own bed, but lifting his head is an impossible task. 

“Rick…?”

He tries to wave a hand. At least that’s what he would like to do; he envisions the action perfectly in his head, but his whole body is plunging and he can’t find his arms.

“Shh, shh, buddy, calm down.”

A warm palm on his forehead. Morty’s cheeks feel on fire. He’s sweating, all of a sudden, and shivering, too. His throat burns. His mouth tastes like a desolate wasteland.

The warm touch moves to his nape, something cool touches his lips. A glass…?

Water.

Morty drinks and coughs, squeezing his eyes shut. His head is pounding. Cool water, the most delicious thing he’s ever had, slides down his throat and partially drips down his chin. Rick’s holding him, keeping his head upright enough not to let him choke.

The glass is emptied. He’s vaguely aware of Rick’s movements to set it down somewhere on the nightstand.

_Please, dad, use a coaster_. With disconcerting lucidity Morty’s mind supplies an echo of the weak reprimand he’s heard from his mother a hundred times.

“Light,” he mumbles.

There’s—a moment of silence, a hesitation.

“O-okay, Morty, hold on.”

Blessed darkness, finally, and Morty can breathe. There’s only the trembling reverberation from the orange alien salt-lamp that Morty keeps on the nightstand; one of many souvenirs from past adventures.

Rick had gotten it for him one time when they were browsing the marketplace of some kind of definitely very drug-fueled festival.

He’d slammed the lamp into Morty’s arms, after Morty had commented in passing that it looked cool, barely turning around to warn Morty not to lick it.

Now Rick hovers above him; the lapels of his lab coat drag across Morty’s chest, tickling his neck and his cheek for an instant that stretches like play-dough.

With a hand still supporting Morty’s head, Rick lays him down, slowly, uncharacteristically careful, rolling him onto his left side. A wave of sickness follows the motion, but Morty closes his eyes and swallows, letting it pass. Long fingers trail down Morty’s calves, lifting up his legs, slipping off his shoes.

“Th-there you go, Morty.”

Rick backs away, swaying in the dimly lit room. Flawless execution right there. Now he’s gonna go, and everything will be fine.

For once.

Morty murmurs something garbled. His hand finds a grip; his fingers cling to the hem of Rick’s sleeve.

“R-Rick.” He pleads. “Stay.”

Rick feels himself sink.

He holds on to Morty’s hand, for a moment, as he detangles Morty’s fingers from his clothes. He cradles Morty’s palm into his.

There is electric blue nail polish on Morty’s nails; a couple days ago he decided he wanted to paint them. He couldn’t enlist Summer’s help, so he did a pretty clumsy job. The color is starting to chip slightly at the tips. Morty _is_ right about something, though—blue _is_ a style.

Rick lets go. The points of contact on Rick’s hand make his skin burn. He _does not_ feel this way, all the time, when Morty happens to touch him for a little longer than usual. 

“I-I’m not reading you a bedtime story, Morty.”

Morty snorts, a weak, quiet laugh.

“I know.”

Morty stirs faintly on the mattress, kicking at the tangle of sheets and covers bunched up at his feet. He gathers his arms near his chest, tucking his hands under his chin, almost hugging himself.

“J-just a moment. Please.”

Everything Rick has ever done seems to converge right into this instant.

He’s stuck into place; it’s the last nail into the coffin of his self-resolve.

He sits at the edge of the mattress, next to Morty’s legs.

Morty looks up at him, his gaze slightly unfocused.

“H-hey, Rick.”

He grins slowly.

“Rick, I got a _tattoo_ ,” he slurs.

“I-I know, Morty.”

“It’s-it’s a _spaceship_!” Morty states it like it’s the revelation of the century. “On my _shoulder_!”

He wiggles his hips, scrambling to roll up his shirt. “Rick, look at my tattoo.”

He fights with the fabric, trying to free his arms from the sleeves. He manages to pull his shirt halfway up, baring a strip of smooth skin.

Rick’s face heats up; he presses his palms over Morty’s hands, pushing him into the mattress.

“Th-that’s okay, Morty, thank you. I’ve already seen it.” Morty had been talking his ear off about how Jessica would finally find him irresistible.

Rick shakes his head.

“Y-you know it’s t-temporary, right?”

He’d like to be meaner, to find more satisfaction in crushing Morty’s little moment of pride—but the words just flow out automatically, because that’s what he does when something is making Morty happy. His voice comes out gentler, more unsteady than Rick would like.

Morty’s face scrunches up in delayed confusion.

“What?”

“It’s a special ink that they use. Very common in that part of the galaxy.” Rick pokes Morty’s forehead with his thumb. “It’s gonna come off in forty-eight hours.” He tried to tell Morty that, too, earlier, not that Morty had any intention of listening.

Morty pouts.

“Aw…”

Rick lifts his hand. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, Morty.” He hesitates. He pats Morty’s head, petting his hair; the impulse from before has won. “It’s okay. We-we’re gonna get you a real tattoo, if, if you want one.”

Morty smiles.

“Th-thanks, Rick.”

Morty’s so dangerously trusting, tonight, from the moment he first went along with Rick’s offer to go out. He seems to be destroying the last barrier of distance he’d learned to put up between the two of them. Why?

Rick pauses his hand. He could caress Morty’s cheek.

(Or punch him, or strangle him. Those options, too, would handle this mess.)

Morty smiles softly, limp and relaxed. His lashes shadow his cheeks.

_Rick and Morty forever 100 years._ That’s how it should have been. Instead, Morty’s growing up.

_And you’re getting older._

It doesn’t matter that Rick has meticulously cultivated, over the past four years, an environment in which he’s the most important, the sole constant presence in his grandson’s life.

All of this effort, and it still doesn’t matter. Morty still ditches him to chase dates with Jessica; he goes to visit Summer; with relentless stubbornness he tries to pursue new hobbies, despite knowing Rick is going to demolish his enthusiasm every time.

And he’s thinking about leaving.

__

It shouldn’t matter to Rick. Morty’s welcome to do how he damn well pleases, if he wants to go on and have a boring, meaningless life like his loser father. Infinite Mortys across infinite dimensions, so why remain hung up on this one? All it would take for Rick would be to hop off to a different dimension, find a new, cozy place for himself, and never look back.

Rick’s fingers tremble, combing through his grandson’s hair.

__

_he’s going to leave you and it’s what you deserve._

_smartest man in the universe. you desperate fucking coward piece of shit._

Morty closes his eyes, letting out a sigh.

“I don’t mind, y’know, Rick.” He shrugs, sinking back into the pillow. Rick’s touch is soft. He shouldn’t trust this, but he’s too tired to question it. “We had a great night.”

At least that is true. He still went out for drinks, and he got a piercing and a tattoo; the kind of stuff that people would think he’s too lame for.

Man, his parents are probably going to yell at him. And at Rick, for allowing it to happen under his supervision.

Or maybe they won’t say anything at all, too absorbed in their own shit to even look at Morty closely enough to notice.

Morty doesn’t care. He probably won’t be sticking around for much longer, anyway. He could be moving out of the house soon… Summer did the smart thing, walking out on all of them as soon as she could.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. College… of course Rick calls it a waste of time. Mom and dad would want him to go, but Morty can see it in their nervous glances, in their polite coughs, that they think he’d be a fuckup, that they expect him to drop out after six months.

He’s gone through so much, he’s seen and done so much more than most of his peers could ever dream of… but when he’s back on Earth, none of those things count for something. None of those things make him someone worth other people’s time.

Rick is different. He’s always been the one who sees something in Morty, the one person who actively searches Morty’s company and shares his life with him, when no one else does.

And Morty gets it, at this point, he’s not an idiot.

He knows Rick uses him. As bait. As a scapegoat. As a fawning spectator that will praise him, and give him an escape route from his boredom, and save his ass.

Morty knows. Rick’s told him himself. That Mortys are a tool to Ricks.

And Morty plays along, because he’s never been able to avoid it.

This is what the two of them are. Their adventures. Their _relationship_.

And yet…

Right now, in the quiet of Morty’s bedroom, Rick is by his side, breathing softly next to him. He could have left, and he didn’t.

And they’ve never talked about this, but…

Morty has heard things, seen things, over the years. At the Citadel, and across the galaxy.

He knows that there are Ricks and Mortys who hook up. Who are a couple.

There are places where it’s forbidden. Places where it’s frowned upon but quietly acknowledged as something that happens. Places where it’s common and no one bats an eye.

It’s not a carefully guarded secret; all it takes is to find the right people to ask, or to be looking in the right direction.

The two of them are _not_ …

They’ve never…

It would have happened, by now, right?

Rick says a lot of stupid shit that he doesn’t mean. He likes throwing words around for the fun of making people flinch. But he’s never…

He doesn’t look at Morty that way. Rick doesn’t see him at all.

Rick’s fingers ghost on his face. Morty is briefly tempted to bite him, in the fog of his mind, just to test out what would happen.

“What’re you thinkin’ about there, M-Morty?”

Morty avoids Rick’s gaze.

“Just… stuff, I guess. Outer space, y’know? It’s, it’s beautiful. It’s quiet, and, and it’s big.” 

He’s never been a great liar. Rick could read right through him, if he cared to do so.

Morty’s heart aches. It’s like having a gaping hole, right there where his chest is supposed to be in one piece.

He should know, with all the injuries he’s sustained because of Rick. Funny that _this_ is the one that hurts so bad it feels completely irreparable.

He can’t take it.

Oh, he’s _tried_. He’s always kept quiet. What else was he supposed to do? Speak? _Tell Rick_ , so that he could laugh in Morty’s face one more time and take additional triumphant pleasure in destroying Morty’s stupid _feelings_?

Morty lifts himself half upright, groaning. He reaches blindly for the salt lamp. His hand hits the empty glass and it falls, shattering.

The room turns pitch black.

Morty senses Rick inhaling, a sharp and gutted sound; but Rick doesn’t move or speak.

Morty’s hands shake. He fiddles with his own fingers. The nausea and dizziness have subsided enough that he doesn’t feel as if he’s spinning on a carousel anymore.

After high school, he’s going to leave. He has to.

The best he can do is know that when he’s going to walk out of his parents' door, it will be with no regrets, and he’ll never look back.

He finds Rick’s shoulder.

“Rick?”

Morty’s throat is dry. The bitterness of alcohol in Rick’s breath is on his lips. It shouldn’t be something that feels good, it shouldn’t be something that draws him in.

They’re drunk, anyway. Tomorrow they won’t remember.

They’ve shared worse than this.

Morty squeezes Rick’s shoulder and leans forward, heavily, feeling his entire body swing like a baseball bat.

“G-give me a kiss?”

It knocks the air right out of Rick’s lungs, just like a punch.

He can’t quantify how much he hates himself, the moment he feels his own body lean closer.

_Disgusting pervert creepy fucking MONSTER. don’t. don’t. don’t do this to him. don’t you dare touch him you can’t don’t do this._

Morty’s fingers touch his cheek, impossibly delicate.

Rick grips Morty’s wrist with a trembling hand.

“Goodness” is bullshit. “Innocence” is bullshit. They’re useless concepts, in the vast chaos of an uncaring universe. His grandson isn’t solely either of those things. Rick has dragged him into far worse than this; Morty has committed far bigger atrocities, all on his own.

Drawing lines has never done much for Rick. When he had to, he’s always found it more convenient to draw them in the sand.

He’s not one to deny himself anything he wants.

He’d still promised to himself that he wouldn’t. Not this. Never this.

_Give up this one thing. Don’t mess Morty up even more._

Rick squeezes Morty’s hand.

He puts his hands on Morty’s shoulders. His fingers slide down Morty’s nape, scraping against the bristle, short hair there.

He presses a gentle kiss to Morty’s forehead.

Then he pulls away.

Morty had done the same, a lifetime ago, after buying Rick a Story Train.

Rick senses Morty’s quickening breath; the heat of Morty’s skin remains on his lips.

There’s something else that Morty doesn’t know, about the “true” first drinking night Rick allowed him to forget.

After Morty’s remarkably poor improv stunt as a rock star, Rick had brought him back to the space motel room where they were staying, before the furious owner of the venue and the band whose instruments Morty had wrecked had a chance to run after them.

He’d sat on the edge of the bathtub, spraying Morty down with the shower head and keeping watch as he cleaned himself up. Ignoring Morty’s red eyes as he curled on himself and sobbed, face buried against Rick’s knees.

After, no longer smelling like death and wrapped in one of Rick’s spare sweaters, Morty had sat cross-legged on Rick’s bed, despite Rick telling him that he wanted to sleep in peace.

_Morty crawling up to him, pale and pathetic and looking so miserable._

_“Rick, I…”_

_Morty’s hand gripping his thigh. Their foreheads pressed together, before Rick could move. Morty’s body closing the distance between them, all up in Rick’s space._

Rick had shoved Morty off of the bed.

_The sinister crack of Morty’s shoulder colliding with the floor._

_Rick shouting to drown out the pounding of his own pulse that was screaming in his ears._

_“W-w-what the FUCK, Morty!”_

_Morty’s dry hiccups as he rubbed his arm, and a mumbled litany of apologies echoing in Rick’s ears,_ _“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-I’ll never do it again, R-Rick, I’m sorry…”_

That night never happened. Morty can’t be hurt by what he doesn’t know.

In the darkness, Rick stands up.

“G-go to sleep now, Morty.”

Morty hums, nodding as he closes his eyes.

Rick picks up the sheet.

He sniffs it, inhaling slowly. It smells like Morty’s skin, like on the spaceship when Morty dozes off after complaining that Rick won’t let him play the music he wants to listen to.

Rick sighs, then drapes the sheet over Morty’s body.

_Selfish. You piece of shit._

_Let him go, let him go, let him go._

Oh, but he knows all of this, none of it is remotely new.

He’ll keep swallowing his guilt and push it down whenever it resurfaces, with anything he’s got, with alcohol and drugs and new adventures.

He will continue to sabotage his grandson’s future, because he can’t let Morty leave.

He’ll keep scraping at the thin coat of Morty’s self-esteem and confidence, and put him back in his place where Morty belongs. By Rick’s side.

He will continue to do whatever it takes so that Morty can never replace him or cast him aside.

He will continue to carry the weight of all of the things that he keeps from Morty, and he’ll live with it.

Because this Morty is _his_ Morty.

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S RAMBLING TIME. 
> 
> This is just me dumping a bunch of my own sadness into my own writing, isn't it. Is the writer okay?  
> Yeah, don't worry.  
> Across different fandoms, I'm always here to kick your feelings. 
> 
> I like headcanons that imagine Morty growing up to be handsome and confident, but to be honest my imagined version of Morty Smith can never hope to be cool. And I like that about him. Badass, yes. Adorable, yes.  
> Cool? He's doing his best.
> 
> Rick, would you please settle on one (1) emotional state so that I can write THAT. I beg you.  
> Fun fact: the original concept for this fic was supposed to be much shorter, mostly from Morty's POV, and entirely played for angst and drama. I did NOT imagine to find myself writing mostly from Rick's POV. He's a very interesting character to write, although I think my version of him is possibly a little too soft and conflicted.  
> But hey, this is the fandom where everything is canon and nothing is canon.  
> I like that I ended up writing so much of Rick. He set the tone and the flow in an interesting way, and I think the fic became something much better because of this.
> 
> Writing the characters' stutter believably is HARD. I feel embarrassed that I can't make it sound very organic, but I hope to get the hang of it if I write more.
> 
> I bring my musical inspirations with me everywhere I go. For this fic, "Scab and Plaster" by Marina and "Your Girl / 3 years" by Lana Del Rey where major unlikely inspirations, along with Glass Animals' general sound.


End file.
